


Pluviophilia

by blubick



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: ADHD, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety Disorder, Depression, F/M, Gen, Past Character Death, Past Child Abuse, Recreational Drug Use, Social Anxiety, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-21 00:22:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6031291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blubick/pseuds/blubick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Depressed, anxiety-ridden college freshman Mikasa befriends her scrappy, loud, all-too-caring neighbor Eren, who- besides being her total opposite- shares similar past experiences. Between unnerving insomnia, violent outbursts, and new levels of rock-bottom, the two continually wonder if there's a reason to keep going, or if their suffering is as pointless as it seems. (eremika college au)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Levels Of Discomfort

 

**AN: Your average silly college AU, lmao. Please keep in mind that Mikasa has an** _ **anxiety disorder**_ **in this AU, so if she seems a little out of character, that’s why. The disorder is not equivalent to the personality. Anyway, this one is going to bleed eremika; it’s very self-indulgent in that sense. I hope you all enjoy!**  

* * *

_**preface** _

* * *

  
  


**I’ve never liked sunny days, if I’m being honest.**

Don’t get me wrong; they’re not _bad_. I’m just personally not fond of them. They’re bright, perfect, normal, and loved by everyone else, after all. I can hear kids squealing in the park on sunny days. I can smell barbeques, and it depresses me, because I’m a terrible person who is brought down by others’ happiness. With each sunny day, I’m reminded of what I don’t have, and I get unreasonably, pathetically sad.

And maybe that’s why I’m drawn to him. Maybe that’s why he makes me happy, why he’s the only one who can bring a smile to my face. Maybe I’m as in love with him as I am because we’re so alike, in that sense.

I don’t mean to say that he isn’t sunny. He is, if you give him the chance to be. He can be anything, if you let him.

But by nature, he is a storm, a torrent, a downpour, inescapable as death and powerful as a hurricane.

Like a hurricane, he relentlessly swirls.

Like a hurricane, he leaves destruction in his path.

Like a hurricane, he is terrifying, from the outside.

And, like a hurricane, there is calm in the center of his being.

When you find yourself in that calm, you find something irrevocably precious and inexplicably moving.

I’m one of the lucky few who have seen it.

* * *

  
  


**Tuesday. 8 PM.**

  
  


It’s cold in my room; muffled music blares from the room nextdoor. My window is open, and the screen is broken. I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling. I should be asleep. But I’m not.

The music is loud and annoyingly familiar. He plays the same songs almost every night, alternative rock constantly humming in the wall between us. I’ve never really liked rock, and this doesn’t make me think any better of it.

It’s New Year’s Eve tonight; I’d have liked to think this guy would be outside with whatever friends he might have, celebrating. I hoped for quiet. But that’s just the way the cookie crumbles, I guess.

And it’s not like I can talk, or even complain. I have friends, I guess, and I _was_ invited to that party at Sasha’s place. I just chose not to go. I’m not in a festive mood. I haven’t been for some time, now.

Still, I’m miserable here, freezing on the carpet of my dorm room, and I know it. I’m hungry, cold, tired, lonely, and, now, annoyed. Because Mr. Linkin Park doesn’t know how a volume dial works.

Instead of trying to fix any of these things, though, I just turn over and grab a blanket, pulling it over my shoulders. I don’t have the energy to do anything else, really.

The music keeps blaring, and my fingers are cold, but I start growing used to these things. You can get used to just about any level of discomfort, I’ve learned. Peacefully, I start to get to some level of comfortable.

And then the door opens.

“Mikasa!” shouts my best friend, and I sigh.

I roll back onto my back, and tilt my head toward the door. I see Armin upside-down, his eyes- already huge by nature- wide with concern. His shoulders sag with what I think is relief, but could be exasperation, or exhaustion. It’s hard to tell with him, sometimes.

“Why didn’t you answer your phone?” he asks.

“I think it’s dead,” I tell him.

“Well then, why aren’t you dressed? You said you’d be at the party tonight, and I got so worried when you wer-”

“I decided to stay in,” I say, and I feel awful for making him so tired. I hate it when he confronts me like this.

His eyebrows scrunch together; he moves forward to close the window. “All by yourself? In the cold? Just staring at the ceiling?”

“Don’t forget the rock music,” I mutter.

He looks back at me. “What?”

“Nothing,” I say. I finally find the motivation to sit up. “Do you want to stay in with me?”

“No,” he answers curtly. “Neither of us are staying in. You’re getting dressed, and I’m taking you to Sasha’s house for some social interaction.”

I frown, but I don’t object. I just don’t have the energy to.

Instead, I ask, “What should I wear?”

“Your black skirt and red cardigan. Make sure you have something covering your legs.”

I snort. “I have leg hair,” I offer. Armin rolls his eyes, but says nothing to argue this point.

He simply says, “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes to take you, dressed or not,” and leaves.

I use my bed to help myself up before heading to my closet. The music from next door stopped playing without me noticing, somehow. I think it’s funny that it stops just as I’ve made plans to leave. I wonder if Mr. Alternative over there can see me, somehow, then drop the thought immediately because it’s too creepy to even consider.

Panty hose, I decide, should keep my legs warm enough. I actually doubt they will, but I’m less worried about how warm I’ll be, and more worried about how shaved my legs look. If I wear tights or leggings, it’ll be obvious that I didn’t shave, won’t it? And it’s not like I really care about whether or not my legs look shaved, but I don’t know how much more teasing I can take from Sasha (who is a hypocrite, because she _never_ shaves her legs.)(that doesn’t stop her from giggling at me, though).

After I pull those on, I slide on the skirt Armin mentioned, thanking him for suggesting this one. I love this skirt with all my heart, but I hardly wear it. I like to save it for special occasions, despite the fact that it’s a plain, generic black A-line skirt. I think it looks nice with my dressier tops, and I like how it looks on me.

I tuck my white tank top into the waist of my skirt before putting on the cardigan, which was Armin’s Christmas gift to me and is probably my second-favorite article of clothing now. He says red looks lovely on me, and the material is so soft, I’ve considered sleeping in it. It goes very well with the skirt and tank, and I silently thank the heavens that I have a best friend who can pick my outfits for me, because there’s no way I could have put something like this together on my own.

I meander to the mirror in the closet door, nearly flinching at my reflection. I’m kind of creepy-looking, especially now, with my hair ruffled carelessly around my ears, and my face, thinner than it used to be, pale and worn as it is. Even my eyes depress me; they’re steely and sharp, and they remind me of a prison cell. And I hate them, and everything else about me, in this moment. How am I supposed to look presentable when this is my starting point? I’m a mess by nature.

But I try. I brush my hair and apply the tiniest amount of makeup, just enough to make me seem almost human again, and I get a few minutes before Armin returns. I use the time to pack party supplies: a good book, a refillable bottle of water, my phone charger, and a pair of earphones. Armin will get after me for avoiding the other guests, I’m sure, but I know he’ll understand. As much as he cares for my mental health, I know he’ll be too empathetic of my case to force me to do anything. That’s part of the reason we’re friends in the first place: our natural, near-crippling introversion.

Sure enough, when he returns, he notices my stuffed bag but says nothing of it. Instead he asks, “I take it you’re ready?”

I shrug in reply and turn out my lights. “As I’ll ever be,” I say, closing and locking my door behind me.

“Look, Mikasa, I know you don’t like parties,” he says as we walk down the hall. “Or, really, any sort of social event. And that’s alright, because I don’t either. But you’ve been cooped up in your room for, essentially, this entire winter break, and it’s not healthy or acceptable. You know I don’t force you to do many things, but I have to draw the line somewhere.”

“I understand,” I say, because I do. “Sorry for making you worry.”

He sighs and opens the door for me. It’s still freezing out, and grey slush that used to be snow lines the pavement. Tugging my coat tighter around my shoulders, I step out into the night. Armin is close behind.

“Don’t apologize,” he says, catching up to me. “It’s my own fault I’m a nervous wreck. Nevertheless, Mikasa, I just want you to promise me something.”

I pull my muffler up so that it covers my nose. “What?” I ask.

He glances sideways at me, that old, familiar concerned expression shifting his features. I feel guilty, again.

“As much as you may not want to,” he says, “promise me you’ll talk to people tonight. That you’ll open up.”

I look away and shrug. “I’ll try my best,” I tell him. The tips of my ears sting.

I don’t look, but I know he’s smiling.

“That’s all I can ever ask for, isn’t it?”

* * *

When Armin rings the doorbell of the Braus household, my stomach twists, and I begin to feel dizzy. I can already hear the music, loud and energetic, humming from the windows and walls, as well as the guests shouting and singing along. My hands are cold in my gloves, and I want to go home.

Armin senses my panic and turns to me. His face, the familiarity of it, its sensitive nature, eases my nerves a bit.

“You can do this,” he reminds me. “You’ll come out of this better than you went in.”

He’s making a _party_ sound like some horrific, traumatizing event that takes a large amount of bravery to endure. It doesn’t. It’s a _party_. People go to these _for fun._ These are _normal_. I’m supposed to be _happy_.

But I’m not, and I’m not normal, I’m so awful and weird and sad, and I need moral support to go to a damn _party,_ and it’s so utterly and unbelievably pathetic and ridiculous, I can’t do this-

The door swings open. Sasha pokes her head out. My muscles freeze.

She sees me, and this big, warm grin spreads across her face.

My heart is pounding.

“Well, well, well,” she drawls, beaming, “look what the cat dragged in! Finally decided to join us, eh?”

I want to be friendly- at least wave or something, because Sasha is such a good friend to me- but I can’t. I just can’t. Knowing I have to physically walk into her house, with its loud guests and louder music and frequent social interactions, I can’t do anything but stare at her.

There’s a pause as she waits for my reaction. I begin to panic even more.

Then Armin, my light, my guardian angel, the most important person in the world, swoops in and says something I don’t quite register. Still, it must be something good, because Sasha nods and smiles, instead of looking at me like I’m a freak of nature. She opens the door, chattering on about how cold it must be outside or something. Armin ushers me in, even as I stiffen and resist his guiding touch. As soon as I step across the threshold, Sasha takes hold of my elbow.

I only catch the last part of her sentence- “borrow her”- before I’m whisked away from my best friend and into a world of unfamiliar faces and sensory overload.

I’m going to throw up.

She has me say hi to Jean Kirschtein, whom I know and dislike, Annie Leonhardt, Armin’s on-and-off girlfriend, whom I also know and dislike, and Connie Springer, Sasha’s best friend, whom I know and do not mind.

Then, to my horror and panic, she leaves me with him. He begins to prattle on about something- I can’t hear him or my own thoughts above that music- and I am going to throw up.

I must look like it, too, because Connie tilts his head at me. I read his lips, and they either say “party olay” or “are you okay”. At the moment, I don’t have the deductive reasoning abilities necessary to figure out which, so I just nod like I have been, and he nods back.

And then he leaves.

I must have missed something there, but I don’t have the energy or the brainpower to figure out what. Chills run down my back. My head throbs. People begin to close the space Connie left, moving too close to me, and I panic.

I scramble through the people around me- god, there are so many of them, why does Sasha have to be so well-liked- and burst out the back door, down the steps, and under the porch, where there is a crusty, ripped lawn chair and an empty plastic tub.  I take a seat in the lawn chair. I am shaking. I am hyperventilating. Sasha took my coat, and now I am freezing.

I curl in on myself in that lawn chair, burying my face in my muffler, my arms wrapped around my legs. I try take deep breaths from my stomach, but they always turn into shallow ones. I feel dizzy again. I’m going to throw up.

This was a terrible idea, and I should have objected when Armin told me to come here. This whole thing was a mistake. I panicked before I’d even gotten past the door, and just now I had a complete freak-out session. It hasn’t even been twenty minutes since I arrived.

They have to be talking about me, the crazy girl who runs through people after her friends leave her. The one who bolted outside.  They must think I’m insane. There’s no way I can go back inside; I’m sure people will stare, or at least talk about me. Someone might even make fun of me. I won’t be able to handle it. I can’t do this.

Then a voice says, “Hey.”

I fall out of my chair.

“Whoa, holy shit,” it says in alarm. “Are you okay?”

I glance around wildly, looking for its owner. Then someone takes my hand. Startled, I snatch it away.

“Whoa- sorry.” says the voice. I look up.

His eyes are so alive that I am paralyzed.

He kneels down so that we are at eye-level. Half of his face is bathed in shadow, the other half hardly visible from the lights above, but there is something so frighteningly sentient about him that it makes itself known beyond the darkness, and I can’t move.

“You okay?” he repeats.

I swallow, feeling like my heart is lodged in my throat, and shake my head.

He takes my hand again. His skin is warm. I begin to forget that he’s a real person, so I don’t snatch it away this time.

Then he asks, “What’s your name?”, and I remember again that he _is_ a real person, one who can judge me and who must think I’m crazy, and I do it.

I throw up, all over him.

* * *

**AN: And so begins a new story! Juli! What the hell are you doing!!**

**Here’s the dealio. I really, really,** _ **really**_ **wanted to write a college AU. Really, really bad. Okay? Okay.**

**Now, time for an old Juli tradition: apologizing!**

**I apologize if Mikasa’s voice seems a little off; she’s very difficult to write, especially from the first person, but like Icarus & I, this story is the sort that kind of **_**has**_ **to be told in first person. Still, please, if you can, give me some input on how you might imagine her inner voice to sound.**

**That being said. I don’t want to hear that Mikasa is out of character because she is feeling things or because she is dealing with an anxiety disorder in this AU. All of that has to do with her backstory, and she already** _**feels** _ **things because she’s a human being. She may be stoic, but that doesn’t mean she’s a goddamned robot.**

**Essentially, I ask for feedback, but sensible feedback. And I do very much appreciate your taking time to read this, so thank you.**

**The next chapter should be up very soon. Please review!**

  
  
  


 


	2. Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mikasa makes a friend in the boy she puked on. He tears down three fundamental truths she's built herself upon.

 

**When I was younger,** I defined myself with three truths.

  1. I was alone.
  2. I was quiet.
  3. I was strong.



I had a pretty clear idea of who I was and what I was good at. I was familiar with my flaws and my strengths, my likes and dislikes, what made me happy and what didn’t. I knew myself, and I accepted what I knew. I was at an equilibrium. If I wasn’t happy, I was at least at peace with myself.

Lately, this hasn’t been the case.

I think about that fact as I sit in the dark, my skin stinging where the air hits it.

* * *

 

He comes back with a new hoodie, a damp washcloth, and several paper towels. I’m surprised he’s even bothered to come back, but he doesn’t seem to have even considered the thought of abandoning me. He’s one of those mind-blowingly nice people, I decide, though if I were in his shoes, I probably would’ve done the same thing.

“Hey,” he says, “I got you some stuff to clean up with. Are you good?”

I nod, taking the roll of paper towels. “I’m fine, thanks,” I say quietly. I realize my face is flushed. I’m embarrassed, as I should be.

As I wipe my chin and shirt disgustedly, he smirks at me (or, at least, I think he does. It’s hard to tell in this dim lighting). I raise my eyes to meet his. Again, the amount of life in them startles me. They take everything in so quickly, so effortlessly, like they notice my every move.

They glint with humor now as he, to my discomfort, swipes the washcloth at my jaw. “So if I ask for your name again, are we gonna have to get another roll of paper towels, or are you good?”

I try for a laugh, but it just comes out as a weak little “ha”. I’m too tired and too embarrassed to find much funny, I guess.

“I’m Mikasa,” I tell him, assuming that’s what he was asking me.

“Mikasa, eh?” he repeats. I like how he says it; his voice is so warm.

“Yes,” I answer. He wipes my chin. I feel like a child.

“I’m Eren,” he says. “Eren Jaeger.”

“Eren,” I repeat. “Nice to meet you.”

“Oh, the pleasure is all mine,” he returns with a flourish. He punctuates his words with a smile, a wide one, before wincing. The cloth is removed from my skin, where it leaves icy prints.

“Are you okay?” I ask him. He pulls at his lower lip while making a face.

“Yeah,” he says, “just got a busted lip. Hurts like a bitch, but it’s whatever.”

Though I flinch a little at his language, I find myself filled with concern for him. After all, he’s already done so much to try to help me, it would be rude of me not to return the favor in any way I can.

“Do you need some chapstick?” I ask him. “I have some in my purse, if-”

“I don’t think chapstick’s gonna do me any good with this one,” he objects. “I’m pretty banged up, anyway, so, like, what’s one more cut? But thanks, anyway.”

“Banged up?” I repeat. “Are you okay?”

He shrugs. “Been better, if I’m being honest. But it’s all good, I’m fine. Really.”

I shake my head and grab my purse, rummaging through it for my phone. I find it and activate its flashlight, pointing it at him.

He squints under its harsh light. I can now see that his left eyebrow is an angry red, swelling just past his temple. His lower lip is, in fact, busted, bloody, red and chapped. A trail of dark, dried blood streams down his upper lip from his nose. Bruises are scattered across his jaw and cheeks. A hand flies to my mouth.

He sighs and turns away. I gape at his silhouette as it escapes the spotlight, my eyebrows tensed in worry.

“What happened?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Got in a fight with some dick. I lost. Came down here to cry like a bitch. Then I found you.”

“Well-” I pause, unsure of what to say or do. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he assures me. “I’ve been better, but I’ve been worse, too. Still, obviously, you’ve been through a fuckton tonight, too, and I’m more worried about you than myself. Why were you down here, breathing like that?”

“It’s- it’s been awhile since I’ve been around so many people,” I answer. “I guess I just panicked.”

“Same, if I’m being honest,” he says.

I look at him. “Really?”

“Really. That’s pretty much why I ended up fighting; when it gets loud like it is in there, I go kinda crazy. I get real angry real fast. Some jackass from my math class- heh, that rhymed- decided to be a punk and talk shit about me to my face, so I lost it.”

“Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugs, yet again. “Ehh. It happens. It was a fuckin’ dumb idea to go here, anyway. I wasn’t even gonna come.”

“Me, too,” I say. “Parties aren’t really my thing.”

He hums in agreement. “Same, dude. I used to go to them all the time in high school, but lately? They’re just, like, overwhelming. I don’t know.”

“No, I know what you mean,” I say. “Everything is just in your face at once. It’s the worst.”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

There’s a moment of silence between us. He sighs.

“I got your washcloth dirty,” he says, standing. “Let me go get a new one.”

“No, I’m fine, now,” I insist. “I don’t think you should go back inside.”

He waves a dismissive hand. “Pssht,” he snorts. “Did it once, didn’t I? Besides, I could go for a drink. You want anything while I’m gone?”

I shake my head. “I don’t drink,” I tell him. Never have, never really plan to. Besides, I’m still underage. And, from the looks of things, so is he.

“Well, what about snacks?” he presses. “You’re not hungry?”

I shake my head again, though I am actually hungry. I don’t want to trouble him.

He gives me a doubtful look. “‘Kay, then,” he says. “Be back in a jiff.”

Then he leaves, and I remember that I don’t want him to, but he’s gone before I can get a word out.

* * *

 

  1. I am alone.



 

Now, I guess, I’m not. I’ve found someone besides Armin who understands me. I have someone else on my team, on my side. One less person in the world to be afraid of.

This truth falls at my feet, dead.

The other two wonder if they should be concerned.

* * *

 

     When he returns, his arms are loaded with food. He balances a folded sheet on his head, and another damp cloth is draped over his forearm. To my surprise, my coat is draped over the opposite arm.

“My coat?” I say, phrasing it like a question. “How did you find it?”

He bends his head toward me so that the sheet falls into my lap.

“Spread that out on the ground,” he tells me. “And Sasha gave it to me. She was worried about you, asked me if I’d seen you around. I told her you were down here with me, and she was like, ‘Oh, okay, is she okay?’ And I said, ‘Yeah, she’s fine. I’m just getting her some food,’ and she goes, ‘Then take as much as you want, and give her this.’ And so yeah. I got your jacket.”

“Coat,” I correct him.

He snorts. “Jacket, coat. Whatever floats your boat.”

Then he laughs because it rhymes, and though I’ve never really found wordplay all that funny, I laugh, too. His emotions are kind of infectious, I realize. I decide that this isn’t a bad thing at all.

After pulling on my coat, I spread the sheet across an old tarp in the furthest corner from the open yard, where the ground is dry. As I do it, it occurs to me that Eren may just be trying to make a move on me. My neck growing hot, I steal a glance at him.

He’s squinting at his phone, making a horrendously disgusted face.

“What the fuckity fucking fuck,” he murmurs. His stomach growls. His chin sinks into his neck in despair as he clutches at it, and he looks hilariously upset.

I decide that he probably doesn’t have any ulterior motives, turning back to my business. Soon, he comes to help me out, and then sets the food on the blanket. I take a seat in the corner; he sits on the other side of the food.

“You sure you don’t want a beer?” he asks me, popping one open himself. He sips at the foam. “These are pretty good.”

I feel myself make a face. “No, thank you,” I say.

“Suit yourself,” he says. “But anyway, I got us a whole bag of chips, and, like, a half-full thing of cookies, so dig in.”

I glance at the cookies suspiciously. “What kind?” I ask.

He gives me a funny look. “Uh, chocolate chip? Duh.”

For some reason, I smile. “Sorry,” I say mock - defensively, “I’ve been tricked before.”

He pauses. Then asks, cautiously, “....weed?”

I snort so hard my throat hurts. “No,” I assure him, “no. Oatmeal raisin.”

“Oh.” Then he laughs again. “Oh. Oh, my god.” he begins to giggle, nearly choking on his drink. “We lead very different lives, don’t we?”

“I guess so,” I answer uncertainly. “Why, have you been tricked with….drugged cookies?”

“You betcher ass,” he says, raising his eyebrows.

I gape at him. “Really?”

He then bursts into laughter at my worried expression. “I’m joking, totally joking,” he says. “No, I’ve only ever done that shit voluntarily. That’s what I meant. You just seem so….innocent. Clean-cut.”

I shrug and reach for a cookie. “I guess I am,” I say.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He takes another swig of his drink, making a face as he swallows it. I watch him curiously.

“Doesn’t it taste bad?” I ask.

He nods. “Tastes like shit,” he says. “But it’s worth it if I can, like, not be here, y’know? Forget about shit.”

“Forgetting,” I sigh. “That sounds nice.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You sure you don’t want some?”

I shake my head, refusing him yet again. “I’ve done just fine without any,” I say. “But thanks.”

He chuckles. After I give him a suspicious look, he says, “God, you’re just so _clean._ I don’t know how you do it, man, but wow. I’m honestly impressed.”

I take another cookie. The taste of vomit begins to fade as I eat it, to my relief.

“Thanks, I guess,” I say. “It’s not all that impressive, though. I just follow the rules.”

“Do you, now?” he asks. The tone in his voice irritates me a little, but I don’t show it. I’m sure he just said it to be funny.

“Yeah,” I answer. “I’m guessing you don’t like rules?”

He shakes his head. “Ehh, not really, no. I don’t believe in them. But I’m not gonna get pissy if you do, y’know? To each their own and all that. Besides, I have major respect for someone as hardcore as you seem to be.”

“Hardcore,” I repeat, snorting again. I take the bag of chips and reach inside to grab one. As soon as I put it into my mouth, I feel better about a lot of things.

“What?” Eren asks, amused at my expression. I can’t help but do a little dance of joy; he giggles at my antics.

“These are _salt and vinegar_ ,” I say excitedly.

He makes a face. “Ew.”

“These are my favorite kind of chips,” I sing. “But I can never find them in the store, for some reason. How’d you guess?”

“Honestly, I just grabbed the fullest-looking bag. Glad you like ‘em, though.”

I eat another chip. Oh god, they taste so _good._

I close my eyes at I chew, humming in ecstasy. Eren laughs at me, but I don’t care. I’m eating salt and vinegar chips. Nothing can make me enjoy this moment any less.

“You’ve got a nice smile,” he says suddenly. I jump a little at the compliment, snapping my eyes to his.

“Hmm?” I ask in shock, making sure I heard him right.

“You’ve got a nice smile,” he repeats, his mouth shaping one of his own. “It’s pretty. Makes me happy.”

I feel my face flush, and I shrink under his gaze, chip crumbs and all.

“No,” I say quietly. “But thank you, anyway.”

His eyebrows scrunch over his eyes. “What the hell do you mean, ‘no’? It’s pretty.”

I wave a dismissive hand and shake my head. “I’m not- I’m...I’m not- that.”

“Pretty?”

“Yeah.”

“Liar.”

I look back at him. He’s making a kind of annoyingly incredulous face, but I choose to take it as a compliment- which actually doesn’t make me feel any better.

“You’re only saying that because it’s dark,” I say.

I think he rolls his eyes. “I can tell the difference,” he assures me. “Don’t tell me you don’t see it.”

“I can’t if there’s nothing to see.”

“Bullshit. You’re beautiful.”

“You’re drinking.”

“I haven’t even finished my first can. I know what I’m saying, here.”

“I’m creepy-looking.”

“Lies.”

“I’m a mess right now.”

“ _Lies_!”

“And I’m just- I’m not...I’m not pretty. At all.”

“You’re pants are on fucking _fire_!”

“ _Quiet_ , someone’ll hear you!”

He grins at me when I say this. I frown back.

“You just yelled,” he says.

I blink at him.

“What?”

He points at me and sings, “I got you to yell.”

I scoff and turn away. He pokes me jokingly. I fight the urge to smack his hand.

Then he stops, to my relief, and his voice turns warm again.

“Your voice is nice when it’s loud.”

Again with the false compliments. I pretend not to hear him, instead taking another chip.

It tastes great.

I find myself smiling.

* * *

 

  1. I am quiet.



 

I just yelled, loud enough for someone to hear me. I don’t yell, but I just did, without even meaning to. And he heard me.

This truth dies, too, resting next to the first one.

That leaves one left.

* * *

 

We sit in silence for a little bit. He stares out past the stairs we sit under, his eyes focused on nothing in particular, and I eat salt and vinegar chips until my mouth is sore.

His breathing is slow, rhythmic, and soothing. I listen intently to it over the thrum of the music and the occasional loud guest overhead, blinking at the damp wooden beams above us as I think absently.

Then, suddenly, Eren blinks and snaps out of his trance. His hands rub together, as if he’s finally realizing how cold it is out here. I watch him shiver in discomfort, and immediately I want him to be warm.

Without much thought, I remove my muffler and hand it to him. He turns to me, his expression telling me he  forgot I was here. I give him a half-hearted smile in return.

Then he’s jarred back into reality. He inhales sharply, and shakes his head.

“I can’t take that,” he says. “You’ll get cold.”

“You’re already cold,” I tell him. As if to prove my point, his hands rub over his arms. I wrap the muffler around him myself, without any hesitation. He eagerly covers his nose, as I thought he might.

“Thanks,” he mutters.

“No trouble,” I tell him.

He takes a cookie, putting the whole thing in his mouth before chewing. I snort at him. He gives me a questioning look, all eyes, no mouth to twist in confusion.

“Why’d you do that?” I ask.

“Do what?” His voice is muffled; I have to fight the urge to laugh.

“Shove the whole cookie in your mouth?”

“I didn’t wanna get crumbs on your muffler.”

“There are already crumbs on it.”

“Doesn’t mean I need to add any.”

I can’t help it; I laugh at him, and he turns away, looking very much like a pouting four-year-old.

“Just trying to be polite,” he mutters. I can’t tell if his sullenness is fake or real. I start to get worried it’s real.

“No, it’s okay,” I assure him. “Really. I just thought it was.....sweet of you. It was sweet of you to be worried about it.”

I see the ends of his cheeks bunch up at this. His head bows, and his shoulders shake. I think he might be laughing.

“You think I’m sweet.”

He says it like he doesn’t take the idea seriously.

“Well, yeah,” I say. “I think you’re very sweet.”

He turns back to me. “Would you get mad if I told you I wasn’t?”

I frown. “I’d be confused,” I tell him.

“Why?”

“Because you’re so nice.”

“Nice,” he repeats. He smiles at me. “I think you’re the nice one.”

“Really.”

“Yeah.”

There’s another moment of silence, but this one’s a lot more uncomfortable than the last few have been. He stares at me with this indescribable kind of emotion in his eyes, and I stare back, trying my hardest to understand what he’s trying to say.

Then he goes, “You’re beautiful.”

And I ask, “Are you flirting with me?”

He shakes his head. “No,” he says, “I just feel like I should let you know. And I don’t even mean, like, outward beauty, though there’s that. You’re just a beautiful person, Mikasa.”

“You just met me,” I say.

“Yeah, sure, but my gut’s telling me you’re a gem,” he says. “And my gut happens to never be wrong.”

“Your gut?”

“Yeah, my gut. My intuition. My instincts. They’re pretty sharp, you know.”

“Is that so?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

We stare at each other again, and despite his jokes, I begin to grow unsettled. It feels like he’s trying to tell me something, something important, but for the life of me I can’t figure out what.

It also feels like I’m trying to say something to myself. And I’m still just as lost.

Then, all of a sudden, there’s this feeling in my chest, throat, and head, like something’s crumbling. Something’s coming down. The longer Eren and I hold each other’s gaze, the more intense that feeling gets. It turns into an aching, a pain, rooted deep in my breathing, warm enough that I start to forget the cold pinching at my face and hands, and heavy enough that I feel my face start to crumple, ever so slightly. I don’t know what this emotion is, or what Eren is doing to cause it, or even if I think it’s a good thing, and part of me begins to panic about it. It’s unfamiliar, but so deep and recognizable, I can’t stand it. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know why I’m responding to it so strongly, or even what “it” is.

And then Eren takes my hand, unflinchingly, and squeezes it, holding my gaze the entire time. He’s making this face, and it says, so clearly, _I understand._

I don’t know how, but some unreachable part of me must finally get what he’s saying, because I start to cry.

The words “oh god” fall from my mouth in a sob, and I finally know what got to me.

He called me _beautiful_.

He called me a beautiful person, and he meant it. Without doubt, uncertainty, or ulterior motives.

I still don’t think I believe him, but the fact that he would think so somehow breaks down a dam I’ve built in my mind.

One less person to face in the world. One more person on my side.

* * *

 

  1. I am strong.



 

I’m not. I’m not strong.

I’m weak, vulnerable, and fragile. I shattered with a touch. I’m crying in front of this boy I just met, because he gave me a look and a hand squeeze. I’m kind of pathetic, and I’m definitely not strong.

This truth falls like old rubble from a building, completing the desecration of everything I built myself on years ago.

I’ve been shaken up for so long; it’s not surprising it took this little to break me down.

* * *

 

Without a word, Eren pulls me into a hug and lets me cry into his chest.

He’s so unbelievably warm.

I sob against the worn fabric of his hoodie for some time, muttering apologies as I do, because I’m crazy and ridiculously emotional. He shushes me, saying it’s okay. He says he knows how I’m feeling, and that he’s been in my shoes, so he understands.

It feels so good to know that.

Eventually, I stop crying. I pull away, embarrassed of myself despite his reassurances, and fix my eyes on my hands as they rest in my lap.

Then someone- it sounds like Connie- shouts, “Thirty seconds!”

“Till what?” Eren asks, confused.

“The new year, I think,” I say. My voice is still a little thick; I swallow in hopes of returning it back to normal.

“Ah,” he says. “Yeah. New beginnings and all that. I think the hype has died down since sophomore year.”

“You think so?” I ask, and I make the mistake of looking at him again.

We both freeze.

He doesn’t answer my question.

The countdown starts.

“TEN! NINE! EIGHT!”

His hand rises to my cheek.

“SEVEN! SIX! FIVE! FOUR!”

He leans in.

_Three._

I am weak.

_Two._

I am heard.

_One._

He kisses me as the guests above us cheer, the taste of beer and cookies on his broken, bloody lips, and I am not alone.


	3. First Impressions

**I'm not a romantic.** I’ve never been the kind of person whose daydreams were filled with hand-holding and kisses, even when I had feelings for someone. I don’t fantasize about others. I just don’t.

But since meeting Eren, I’ve caught myself thinking of him almost concerningly often.

After we kissed, we spent a little more time together, smiling and joking around. I finished off the salt and vinegar chips with relish as we talked. The entire time, my neck was burning like I had a fever. Even some of his laughs were less hearty than they had been, verging more on nervous-sounding, which I chose to take as a good sign.

Then Armin showed up, telling me he was heading back. He introduced himself to Eren; the two seemed almost fascinated with each other. I thanked Eren for his kindness, exchanged phone numbers, gave him a quick, nervous peck on the cheek, and left with Armin, saying a brief good-bye to Sasha on our way out.

The car ride home was full of questions from Armin, who was ridiculously excited about the fact that he’d found me having a makeshift picnic with a boy. He was a little less excited to tell me that that boy had gotten into a fight with Jean Kirschtein soon after we’d arrived, but I wasn’t deterred by this fact. Jean may have been a good friend of Armin’s, but he had a long way to go before he could consider himself a friend of mine.

Nevertheless, he pressed me for details until I gave him the whole story. We were back in my dorm room by the time I finished, and Armin’s entire face had lit up.

“Mikasa,” he said eagerly, “this can be so good for you.”

To which I responded with a fidgety, “What? What is ‘this’?”

He gave me a wry smile- a cheeky one, that boy- and said, slowly, “A new _friend.”_

I simply rolled my eyes at his implications, but I’m sure we both knew I would have liked to entertain the thought. I’m not subtle when it comes to these things, and I know it.

Three days later, I’m curled up on my bed, eyes glued to my phone. As strange as this sounds, I can still clearly remember how the skin on his lips had poked me, and how unpleasant blood and beer taste together. My toes curl beneath my blankets at the memories, and I pick at my fingernails as I wait for him to reply to my most recent text, my eyes skimming our conversation as it stands in this moment.

E:  you goto rose u???

E: bro

E: BRO

E: thats where i go!!!!!!

M: really?

E: dude yea!! omfg this is insane

M: I should’ve figured since you’re a friend of sasha’s.

E: dude wat major ru

M: criminal justice. you?

E: undecided with a captial U man

E: do you live on campus or what

M: on campus. what about you?

E: bro me too!!! omfg dude we could meet up!!!

E: do u hav an yidea how exited i am rn???!!!

E: aaaaaahhh this is os great omfg!!!

E: im actually about to get back on campus from me dads place rn

E: u wanna hang out today?? im free, i could meet u up in like an hour or smoth

M: sounds good. :)

E: ok ok im about to get home ill text u onc eim settle din ok

M: alright

E: tty in like a few minutes

  
  


As I re-read the last message, alternative rock begins to blast from my wall. My eyes snap upward, my entire body shuddering in shock at the sudden noise. I sit in stunned silence, staring at the wall for a few moments.

Silence turns quickly to annoyance.

Mr. Alternative hasn’t been around these past few days; I guess you could say I’ve been enjoying the quiet. I have been expecting him to come back around some time soon, but really? Today? Tomorrow, when I’m not going to meet up with a person I may or may not have a crush on for the second time ever, would be okay. Even yesterday would have been a decent time. But right now?

I guess it doesn’t even matter all that much. I was just happy, and then I got the daylight scared out of me, which is always unpleasant.

Still. I’m just generally sick of this. I mean, how inconsiderate do you have to be to blast your music that loudly? These walls aren’t that thin; it takes a conscious effort to make your music heard in the room next door. Is he- or she, I guess- just trying to annoy his or her neighbors? Do they _want_ someone to get on their case? I have a hard time believing this is something you’d do by accident.

These thoughts, fueled by sheer irritation, drive me to leave my bed, walk over to my wall, and pound my fist against it.

The music stops. I hear a male voice, muffled but loud, call, “Hello?!”

“Turn down your music!” I shout.

There’s a pause.

“What?!”

“Turn down your music!!”

Another pause.

Then:

“No!! Go fuck yourself!!”

The music blasts again, this time twice as loud. I gawk in offended awe at the wall. How on earth can anyone be this rude? This inconsiderate? This stubborn?

I knock again. My hand aches.

The music is turned up even louder.

I’m ready to punch someone out.

I storm out of my room, barefooted, and march over to the door just left of mine. My hand practically slams against the door. The music stops. The door opens.

And before me is the bruised, scowling face of Eren Jaeger.

I nearly fall backwards in my shock. He catches me before I can, though, shouting in alarm as his hands clamp down on my shoulders.

In the odd, florescent lighting of the hallway, he looks completely different. His bruises stand out more, contrasting harshly with skin that is much lighter than I remember it to be. His hair, too, is lighter than I remember; I can pick out where the lowlights are, and I notice every ruffle, every uneven strand. It’s apparent that he hasn’t gotten in cut in some time; split ends fall just below his ears as fuller, healthier strands sweep over them.

Still, as we study one another in this moment of shock and confusion, I notice, too, that his eyes hold no lesser amount of life than they did three nights ago. I also notice that they are gorgeous, possibly the most beautiful shade of green I’ve ever seen, and my heart stutters when I look into them.

He frowns and, finally, helps me back on my feet. His hands move quickly from my arms and dig themselves into the pockets of his sweats. He avoids my gaze.

“So….that was you, huh.”

I blink at him for a moment, having forgotten why I’d knocked on his door in the first place. Then he looks at me again, expectantly, and I remember all the irritation, all of my initial intentions. I fold my arms and take a deep breath.

“Yes,” I say, “that was me.”

“Not a Linkin Park fan, huh?”

He tries for a smile, but I’m not in a joking mood. I simply look at him.

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “Am I an asshole, now?” he asks.

Not knowing what to say, I look away and shrug.

There’s a moment of silence, uncomfortable and awkward between us. I eventually grow tired of standing in in the quiet, and I wordlessly return to my room.

Eren does not follow after me. There goes my new friend, I guess.

Back to square one.

                                                

* * *

  
  


Hours pass. I watch Netflix in muted disappointment, now and then briefly wondering if Armin will end up being the only person I can depend on, ever. We’ve been friends since middle school, and since middle school, I haven’t been able to find anyone as willing to stand by me, or dependable enough for me to trust. I start to wonder if Armin really is that rare of a gem, and I begin to re-evaluate how much I appreciate him (which is already a lot).

_House_ is an okay distraction as I think, I guess. I know Armin is alright with it. He prefers non-fictional shows, like things on National Geographic and the Discovery Channel, but now and again he’ll relent and sit through BBC’s _Sherlock,_ or some kind of new Netflix Original. Besides, as long as I sit through his marathons of Star Trek, I know he’ll feel obligated to watch what I want for a good while. I’m considering calling him when there’s a knock on my door.

I stiffen, my head turning thoughtlessly toward the sound. It’s too loud of a knock to be Armin’s, and I know Armin has my spare key, anyway.

It can’t be anyone else but-

A bag is slid underneath the door.

I stand and move closer to inspect it. It’s a chip bag. The label says _Salt & Vinegar._

Picking up the bag, I take a deep breath and hold it against my stomach. I don’t know how I feel. I don’t know how I am _supposed_ to feel.

I guess there’s only one thing to do, now.

I hurry back to my bed and open the chips, resuming my show.

“Aw, come on!” Eren’s voice shouts outside my door. “That was a peace offering! You don’t just take a peace offering and leave without talking!”

Silently, I stare in his direction. I don’t stop eating the chips, because I don’t have a sound reason to.

“Are you still eating?!”

I stop eating the chips, because I have a sound reason to.

“No,” I say.

“Mikasa. Please. I fucked up, and I’m sorry, but I really like you, okay? I’ve never met anyone like you before, I swear to god. I don’t want to spend the rest of this year as your awkward neighbor who was almost your friend until he was a jackass. Please, just talk to me. I don’t even really expect you to forgive me; I just want to talk, for god’s sake.”

I pause, licking sour, stinging flavoring off of my lips.

Then, I finally decide to speak.

“I don’t talk,” I say. “I’m not….I’m not good at that. Talking.”

“And I’m not that good at saying I’m sorry, or making a good first impression,” he returns. “But here I am, trying my damnest, anyway. I won’t judge you, Mikasa, because I can’t. We’re in the same boat here, kind of. You know that, right?”

I frown at my pajama pants, at the glinting zipper of my hoodie, and sigh, because he has a point. I can run away until my legs give, but I can’t fight facts.

So I stand again, the salt and vinegar chips cradled in my left arm, and unlock the door, opening it to look once more at the slightly disfigured, slightly discolored face of Eren Jaeger.

He smiles sheepishly at me. I notice a dimple in his left cheek, just below a nasty bruise. I look him in the eyes.

“Sorry I told you to go fuck yourself,” he says. “And, uh, sorry I was playing my music so loud. It’s how I cope when my room’s too…quiet.”

“Quiet?” I repeat.

“Quiet,” he confirms. “I feel like I’m going crazy, sometimes, when there isn’t enough sound. Sorry if I bothered you with it.”

I can’t help it; he’s terribly charming. I kiss him on the cheek, resting my hand on his shoulder assuringly.

“It’s alright,” I tell him. “I was the obnoxious one. I should never have yelled through the wall. That was rude of me.”

He snorts. I look up at him, confused.

“What?” I ask. “What’d I say?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing. You’re just so nice, it’s insane.”

I give him an incredulous look, but the feelings I had for him begin to creep back into my chest, nonetheless. My face flushes, ever so slightly. I hold the chip bag against me shyly and smile down at my toes.

”Nice," I repeat, his words from three days ago ringing in my ears. ”I think you're the nice one."  

“Jesus,” he chuckles. “Using my own words against me. That’s not fair.”

I meet his eyes again. Their liveliness glitters with warmth; I find myself holding my breath.

He slumps in the doorframe and shrugs, keeping his eyes on mine. “So, how about it?” he asks.

“How about what?” Did I miss something?

“That date you promised me. Still up for it?”

I instantly freeze at the word _date._ Is that what he’s been thinking of it as this whole time? A _date_? Like, a romantic meet-up? Something more than platonic?

Oh, god. Oh, god, oh, god, oh, god. There are butterflies in my stomach, _millions_ of them. What do I say? What do I do? Someone _likes_ me, wants to go out with me on a date! How on earth am I supposed to react?

He frowns at me. “You okay?” he asks. “Did I say something wrong?”

I shake my head fervently. “No, no, you didn’t do anything wrong,” I tell him. “I’m just- I don’t know. I don’t know. I’m weird. I’m sorry.”

His expression softens. I wonder why he hasn’t started looking at me like I’m a freak of nature yet, but I’m more caught up in the utter _comfort_ he brings me. My stomach settles, a little. He takes my hand.

“You like coffee?” he asks me.

“Not a huge fan,” I tell him, still just a little breathless.

“Tea, then?” His voice is so unbelievably warm _._ I don’t think I’ll ever get over it.

“Yes, I like tea.” My palms are clammy. “And chocolate,” I add for some reason.

He grins at me, all teeth and scrapes. His lip isn’t bloody, anymore, I notice.

“I know just the place for you, then. Get dressed. I’ll knock when I’m ready.”

He plants this fleeting, hesitant kiss on my forehead before heading back into his room. I watch him leave, my skin practically buzzing, my stomach lurching in an almost pleasantly uncomfortable way.

* * *

**AN: Heyo! Back again. Thank you guys for all your support and feedback, especially to those who reviewed! Please, don't stop what you're doing, and until next time!**

**Please review. :)**

  
  


 


	4. Chaos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eren takes Mikasa on what is supposed to be their first date. The appearance of a couple of classmates sets them drastically off-course.

 

* * *

 **It should be noted that, while I’m not a _fan_ of coffee, I do like it on a certain level.** The smell is comforting, to me; as is the taste, and the warmth it gives my hands when I hold it in a mug. Coffee reminds me of better times, I guess you could say. My dad always liked it.

I really  just don’t like what it does to my system; it makes me jittery and shaky, and it’s pretty embarrassing.

I guess my point is that of all the places Eren could’ve taken me on our _\- my -_ first date, this had to be the best possible choice. He takes me to this coffee shop, sitting above an old bookstore, with a library of its own and worn, comfortable seats pushed up against wall-sized windows that lead to currently empty balconies.

I have never been here before, though I’ve thought about browsing the store below. From the outside, at least in this weather, you wouldn’t guess that there was a whole other establishment here. The shop is kind of hidden. I find that fact just a little annoying, since I wish I’d found this place earlier, but mostly I’m just comfortable. I really like the idea of a hidden little place where I can relax with a cup  of tea and a book, away from the outside world, but not trapped in my tiny dorm room. I think Armin would like it here, too. I think about inviting him sometime.

Eren keeps a hold of my hand the entire time, which I’m slightly uncomfortable with, but I don’t say anything. I understand he’s trying to make up for any prenominitions I might have about him since our little incident, and he’s obviously fairly in touch with what I like and dislike, so I feel like I owe it to him to withhold any more possible objections or conflicts.

Besides, any discomfort this gesture causes me is more or less overshadowed by the complete and absolute warmth he emanates, as well as the charming, sloppy, honest grin he gives me whenever I say or do anything. He looks at me like I’m the greatest person he’s met in a while, and although part of me wants to reject him and his feelings and his openness, the majority just doesn’t have the heart to do anything but let him feel that way. Still, I feel guilty for not refusing it. I wish I was a strong enough person to tell him what an empty box I am.

As we take our place our orders and take our seats, my mind begins to shift directions every other moment, from the shop to Eren to Armin to my freaking clothes, which I obsessed over until he told me it was time to go.

And, for the record, I look terrible. Like I did on New Year’s, post-throw-up, but ten times worse.

Anyway, my mind is zipping around right now, and it’s making me uncomfortable and nervous, and I wish there was just a way to turn it all off. Why can’t I go on a single date without freaking out? Why is everything in my life a trial, something to endure instead of enjoy? Why do I have to stay in my room, isolated and sad and lonely and cold, in order to be calm and okay? What on earth is wrong with me?

I begin to consider backing out and leaving when the scent of a fresh blend of coffee hits my nose.

The images flash before me in this order:

Spools of thread, splashed with white midday light.

Pale, graceful fingers dancing along the white and black keys of a grand piano.

Ghosts of laughter lines decorating soft hazel eyes that melt like butter.

Beethoven’s _Moonlight Sonata_ begins to play in my head, soon overshadowed by Takagi Masakatsu’s _Okaasan no Uta._ My chest feels tight as the songs overwhelm me, one slow and dark and melancholy, the other bright and warm and loving, and I don’t know how to react or what to do or what even is going on, I hear them so clearly in my head, but I’m still in the shop, staring at the wood of the table, at its swirling marks, a chill tries to find its way up my spine, I begin to feel nauseous-

Warm pressure on my hand.

“Mikasa.”

My name.

I like how he says it.

I find myself, once again, looking into the living, breathing eyes of Eren Jaeger. They don’t scare me, now.

He looks concerned.

“You okay?” he asks me. Silently, I nod.

“I...spaced out,” I say. “Sorry.”

He tilts his head at me, like a confused, scruffy dog. “You sure?” he says. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I involuntarily bark out this weird, awful chuckle at the word _ghost,_ but shut my mouth almost as quickly as I’ve opened it. His gaze, confused and concerned, burns. I frown at our hands, suddenly glad he hasn’t let go of me yet.

“You know, I get it,” he says. He’s lowered his voice. “Bad shit, right?”

Pursing my lips, I shake my head.

“Good…poop,” I tell him.

I see him withhold a snort- he probably wants to laugh at my lack of vulgarity.

But he doesn’t. All he says is, “What do you mean by ‘good’?”

I shrug and rest my chin on my folded arms. “Baggage,” I say.

“I like baggage,” he tells me, leaning forward fervently.

I don’t believe him. “Do you, now?”

His mouth twists; he looks away. “Well,” he says, “I guess ‘like’ isn’t the best word for it. More like... I’m cool with it, I guess? I don’t know. I think what I’m trying to say is that, if pain is baggage, I’m basically a bellboy. You get what I mean?”

I actually don’t, but I nod like I do. That whole bellboy thing threw me off, honestly.

I guess he can tell I don’t get it, though, because he just shakes his head and says, “Nevermind. Let’s change the topic.”

“Kay,” I say.

He squints at me, droning, “Ahhhh…….uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh _okay!!_ What is...your favorite…..movie?”

I shrug.

He tries again. “Favorite color?”

I shrug.

“Favorite….song?”

I shrug again.

“Oh come on, you’ve gotta like _something._ ”

“I do like things,” I object. “Just not enough to call them my favorites.”

“Except salt and vinegar chips.”

“Yes.”

“And...tea? Your order was really specific.”

I shake my head. “It just depends on my mood,” I say.

He looks up, glancing over at the front counter.  “Speaking of which, haven’t they been taking a while? It’s not like this place is full, or anything.”

“Maybe they’re short on staff,” I offer.

Then he scoffs with an ugly heaviness, standing. “Oh, I know _exactly_ what’s taking them so long,” he says.

I turn to see what he sees. Two boys, about our age, are at the counter. One stands with his arms folded, red beanie low over his pierced ears. The other leans on the counter. He’s talking to the old man behind it. They both laugh at something, and I realize who the boys are.

“Jean,” Eren growls. “What a fuckin’ asshole. Holding up the goddamn service.”

I frown. “I think it’s Marco leaning over the counter,” I say.

“Well, y’know, he _could_ tell his boyfriend to hurry the fuck up.”

Without meaning to, I find myself glaring at Eren. “That’s a little rude,” I tell him.

He rolls his eyes. “Fine whatever. Just don’t talk to him. Please.”

“Didn’t plan on it,” I assure him, irritation slipping into my words.

I tap my fingers on the table absently, glancing from the window to the counter to Eren’s scowl. We sit in silence as I hope for him to calm down. He gets to a point where he looks less angry, and more annoyed. I breathe a silent sigh of relief.

Then I see Marco heading over to us, with his sullen jerk of a boyfriend in tow.

I murmur, “Eren.”

“Hmm?”

“They’re coming.”

He stiffens, snapping his head to their direction, and suddenly they’re both standing over us.

Marco smiles brightly. Jean averts his eyes. Eren keeps his focus on Marco.  I pop my knuckles nervously.

“Hey, Eren!” Marco greets, almost annoyingly chipper. He turns to me. “And, um...Mikasa. Mikasa, right?”

“That’s right. Hi, Marco.”

“Hey. I saw you guys hanging out here, and I just thought, like, what a coincidence! I thought I might as well come over and say hi, y’know? And, also, uh, Jean has something to say to _you_ , Eren.”

We all turn to Jean expectantly. He turns away.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “I was a little drunk. And an ass.”

To my horror, Eren smirks.

“Glad to see you’ve finally realized it,” he says. “I mean, you would think from the smell alone, you might one day wake up and realize, ‘Wow. I might be an ass.’ But it took _you_ , like, your whole life! Incredi-”

“You know what? _Fuck you,_ Jaeger. I come here for some peace and quiet, see _your_ ugly mug invading _my_ line of sight, and then suddenly _I_ have to fucking apologize? Nuh-uh. I am sick of your childish, pathetic, sob-story ass doing whatever the _hell_ you want because you apparently ‘had it rough’ as a kid, okay? You’re in the real world now, fuckwad. Grow a goddamn pair of balls and get your shit together.”

Eren stands, nearly as red-faced as Jean. I’m frozen to the spot.

“Say one more thing about me or my childhood, pissant, I _dare_ you!” he exclaimed. “You don’t fucking know what it was like, you entitled, privileged son of a bit-”

“Oh, no, is baby Eren gonna cry? Gonna throw one of his temper tantrums? Huh? Is that what’s happening here?”

“ _Fuck_ off!”

“No, you piece of shit, _you_ fuck off! Anything that happened to you was your own goddamn fault, you worthless, _whiny_ waste of space. You  wanna fuck off to your little hidey holes and cry about it? Fine. I don’t give a damn. But _I’m_ trying to live a normal, good fucking life here, so get the fuck out of my way, before I _make_ you.”

A vein begins to bulge from Eren’s forehead. Muscles in his jaw twitch. My stomach begins to freeze over. Marco is whispering something to Jean, holding his hand, but Jean shoves him away, getting in Eren’s face.

“Is that _clear_ , Jaeger?” he hisses. I’ve never seen anyone so red before.

Eren opens his mouth. I don’t know what he’s going to say, and I guess I never will, because Jean cuts him off.

“Or should I call you _murderer_?”

He loses it. I watch, terrified, as Eren grabs Jean by the throat and slams him into the table, screaming, “ _You shut your mouth_! _You shut your fucking mouth_!!”

Jean kicks Eren in his groin and rips his hands from his neck, standing and shouting, “Police! Police!”

Marco runs back for his phone. Eren recovers, tackling Jean to the ground, beating his fists into his chest and head. I think I release some sort of noise- a yelp, or a gasp, I don’t know, I’m so overwhelmed- and Jean makes eye contact with me, desperately asking me to help. Eren’s knuckle hits the inside of his open mouth. He cries out in pain; I’m sure Eren’s just knocked his tooth in.

And that’s what jars me, the unarguable evidence that Eren is hurting someone. I rush forward and grab him by the shoulders. He fights, stronger than I thought he’d be, but still not stronger than me. After pulling him off of Jean, I push him away, briefly, and turn to help Jean up.

And then-

“ _Mikasa_!”

I turn, and before Eren hits me, I’m struck, again, with how alive his eyes are.

They are relentless and chaotic and petrifying.

They clear, for the briefest of moments. Just before his hand hits my temple.

My ears ring.

My heart pounds in my head.

I smell coffee.

I smell blood, too.

The visions appear again.

Different ones,

but the same.

Colder hands on my temple.

Darker room, cooler tones.

Louder ringing in my ears.

Blood.

Mold.

Sweat.

Hot breath.

I smell it all in one whiff.

I am back.

I am back here.

This is where I belong, in the end.

My final destination.

My home.

I choke out a sob, and I think I see that window again, the cracked one I jumped through _,_ my fate, my end, the only way out of my hell, but before I can reach to open it, the room begins to swirl into one giant blob, one huge mess of blue, black, and white, blue, black, and white, blue, black, and white, and then suddenly

I smell coffee.

* * *

_-dangerous man -_

_\- girl here…...unconscious-_

_\- breathing, yeah, sir-_

_\- hit her -_

_-Jaeger -_

_\- Mikasa -_

_\- date? I don’t know wh-_

_\- bleeding…..tooth knocked out by him-_

_She screamed, “Let me out!”_

I don’t know what these mean.

* * *

I wake up to an ugly, white light above me. I see the shadows of dead moths sitting in its cover. Goosebumps cover my arms.

My hand is held tightly in someone else’s. Their skin is dry and smooth, and their fingers are bony. I recognize the feeling.

I turn my head, and it’s Armin who is at my bedside, who is holding my hand. With his free hand, he holds a novel up to his eyes, squinting at the page. He looks paler than usual.

Gently, I squeeze his hand. His eyes flick to mine, and every ounce of tension in his body is suddenly washed away. He closes the book, forgetting to mark his place, and exhales as he moves towards me.

“Mikasa,” he sighs, wrapping his arms around my neck. “How are you feeling?”

“Numb,” I answer immediately, quietly. “And exhausted.”

He pulls back, combing my hair away from my face to study my expression. After a few short moments of this, he says, “You think you’re good to go back to your dorm? Or do you need to stay with me tonight?”

“I don’t know,” I say quietly. “Choose for me.”

He looks very tired when I tell him this. Yet another pang of guilt seizes my chest.

He sighs, staring at my blanket. “I think...it’d be best to stay here, for now. But I doubt they’ll let you. So you’re staying with me.”

“Okay,” I say.

“But Annie’s going to be there, so-”

“Not okay.”

He takes my hand again, looking me in the eyes. “Please, Mikasa. I don’t want you to be alone right now. Marco told me you had an episode, and I know how you get when you’re alone after something like that.”

“Okay, but does _Annie_ have to be there?” I say her name with an extra layer of disgust. It satisfies me every time.

He rolls those bright baby blues of his. “Please, Mikasa, you can handle her company. And she’s _not_ all that bad.”

“She hates me.”

“She doesn’t hate anyone. She’s just irritated by your presence. And it’s not even personal; she’s like that with everyone except for me.”

I sigh, the sound long and drawn out, as I try to find a better argument. But I don’t, because as usual, Armin is right. Annie’s not all that bad.

And staying at his place with her is better than staying at my own, alone. Or with him.

 _Him._ Part of me wonders if he’s okay, where he is now. The other part churns in my stomach, threatening to make me vomit. I push the thought of him out of my mind.

Armin notices, like he always does, and chews on his lower lip, scrunching his eyebrows.

“You’re thinking of him, aren’t you?” he asks.

I nod slowly. “Yeah,” I say, my voice quiet.

“Don’t.”

I look at him, study his face, and I can tell that he’s furious. Not with me, but with Eren. He’s going to do something about what’s happened, if he hasn’t already. I don’t know how I feel about that, how I’m supposed to feel about that.

Then he says, firmly, “I’m filing for a restraining order,” and I suddenly know exactly how I feel about it.

“It’s not his fault,” I blurt.

“I don’t give a damn whose fault it is. The fact is, Mikasa, he’s dangerous, and we can’t let another incident like this happen again.”

“He’s not dangerous.”

“He knocked out Jean’s tooth! Put you in the hospital!”

“I’m fine, Armin. And, you know, Jean kind of deserved it.”

“Deserved it? For what?”

“He called Eren a-” I stop myself, before I say something incredibly stupid.

But Armin knows me. He knows me so well. He presses me to speak, to finish my sentence, with a single look. And, after all I’ve put him through, I can’t lie. Not to my best friend.

“He called Eren a murderer,” I sigh.

It’s all over now.

“I’m definitely getting that restraining order,” he tells me.

I want to object, but I know I can’t. Armin budges on some things, but not things like these. To push any further would be to ask for a rift in our relationship, which I know I can’t handle right now.

“Maybe it’s for the best,” I murmur to myself instead, forcing the idea down my own throat. It doesn’t feel right. It feels almost immoral, but it’s the logical way, the mature way to go about things.

“I know it is,” Armin assures me, trying for a comforting smile. It doesn’t work as well as it normally does. It reminds me of how, when I was a little girl, my mother would smile when there was something wrong. It’s tight-lipped, insincere. It scares me more than it comforts me.

A nurse walks in, smiling brightly when she sees me. Armin squeezes my hand and leans back, picking up his book again.

The nurse asks me all the standard questions- how I’m feeling, what I remember, when I woke. As we talk, an unshakeable, stupidly naive thought presses in the back of my mind, fighting the ideas I force-fed myself.

I know that it’s a good idea to stay away from Eren. I know that. He is dangerous, at least in Armin’s eyes, and Armin is usually right. It would be stupid of me to think otherwise. If I act against this idea, I could get hurt. Eren and I can’t be friends, romantic interests, anything anymore. This is a major red flag, and I have to pay attention to it. For my own safety.

But.

But he’s thrown into fits of anger when provoked or overstimulated. He blasts music loud enough to ruin his hearing when he’s alone, because he can’t stand silence. He is rude and snappy and emotional and violent.

These are major red flags.

These are cries for help.

Metal, freezing cold, is pressed against my chest through my shirt. I look at Armin, who catches me and tries for another, softer smile.

Briefly, I wonder if Eren has anyone to hold his hand when he’s hurt.

And then I remember that he held mine when I needed him to.

And I have no idea what on earth I am supposed to do.

 

  
  


 


	5. Talking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armin's flat is meant to be Mikasa's safe haven for the time being. Annie's presence constitutes problems.

* * *

 

**Annie is never any better than I expect her to be.**

Any time I know I’m going to have to interact with her, I pull out my mental checklist, a list titled _Is Annie Still As Terrible As I Remember?_ It’s never been hard to fill out.

When I’m dropped off at Armin’s flat, and Armin abandons me to go get my clothes and toiletries, I run over it in my head after ringing the doorbell, just to be sure it’s all still there.

_Okay, let’s see._

_We have rude, snarky, oversensitive, selfish, confrontational, proud, and- wait. I’m missing one._

The door swings open. I have to look down to see her. She glowers up at me, offended that I have to look down, like her pathetic height is my fault, somehow.

“Forgot _you_ were coming over,” she sighs in disgust. “Get inside, and keep your shoes on. I don’t want your grimy feet on our carpet.

I then remember that I am not, in fact, missing an item on my list. I just put _rude_ twice, because that’s how rude she is.

Still, I remind myself, she is important to Armin. One day, if he makes the mistake of his life and marries her, she might be like a sister-in-law to me. While I have to suppress a shudder at the thought, it’s still a plausible situation. It’d be best if I at least _tried_ to stay on good terms with her.

So I take off my shoes, dropping my luggage off next to the couch I usually sleep on. I’m about to take a seat, maybe even fall straight asleep, when Annie says, “I’m sleeping there.”

I look at her. “What?”

“I’m sleeping there,” she repeats, her expression tinged with annoyance. My stomach boils a little, but I don’t give in to the feeling. Instead, I decide to talk through it.

“But I usually sleep here,” I tell her, as if she doesn’t already know.

“Yeah, but now, that’s where _I_ sleep,” she replies, as if I didn’t get her point the first time around.

“Can I ask why?” I’m trying very, very hard to keep my voice even. I’m unsure if it’s working.

“None of your goddamn business,” she answers. “That’s why.”

The boiling feeling returns. I don’t give into it, standing. “Then where am I supposed to sleep?”

“Try getting in bed with Armin,” she retorts, smirking. “I’m sure he’ll be more than glad to have you.”

The boiling feeling spills over. I march towards her, eyes already locked on her ugly nose, fist at the ready, when there’s a knock at the door. It’s polite, but rapid. Armin must be home.

She moves to get it, but I grab her wrist, yanking her towards me.

“I’m here because I have nowhere else to go,” I hiss, “but I will _not_ hesitate to knock you back to wherever you came from. Armin is a great guy, and more importantly, my best friend. You do anything to hurt him, _anything,_ and I will tear you a new asshole, Leonhardt. You understand that?”

For a moment, Annie looks shocked. But before I can be satisfied with her reaction, she smirks, ripping her hand from mine.

“Asshole,” she repeats, heading for the door. “Looks like Miss Perfect’s picked up some new vocabulary. Wonder who you got it from.”

She opens the door. Armin hurries inside, arms loaded with groceries, and kicks the door shut behind him, exhaling.

“It’s terrible out there,” he breathes, going into the kitchen. “Have you guys been good?”

“Oh, we’ve been getting along just fine,” Annie tells him, cutting her eyes at me. “Mikasa was just wondering where she’d be sleeping.”

There’s a pause, and immediately, I know Armin has caught onto what’s transpired. He sighs tiredly, entering the living room again. He looks at Annie.

“We’re talking later,” he says curtly. “But right now, I want you to apologize.”

She scoffs. “For what?”

“I don’t know exactly what you said, but I know you, Annie. You said something. Apologize, _now._ ”

Glaring at him, she spits, “Fine. I’m sorry.”

“Not to me. To Mikasa.”

“You’re not my fucking dad, Armin.”

“ _To Mikasa._ ”

She turns to me, arms folded. “Sorry,” she says. “Now do I get my basic human rights back, or did you want me to eat her out, too?”

Armin simply scoffs in disgust, turning back to the kitchen. “I can’t believe you,” he says.

“That’s funny,” she says, turning toward the door. “‘Cause I can’t believe me, either.”

“Annie, don’t leave.”

“Like I said, you’re not my dad. I can do what I want.”

And just like that, he’s rushing over to her, holding her hands in his own. The sight almost makes me sick. I don’t understand how or why he tolerates this.

He murmurs something into her ear. She shakes her head and glances at me, but quickly drops her gaze to the carpet. He squeezes her hand. For the briefest of moments, I think I see vulnerability in her expression, a mask of ice melted, but then he lets go of her, and it returns.

“Listen,” he says, turning to me. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to state this so bluntly, but I guess that’s the way things are going to have to be. Both of you are here because you have nowhere else to go. And I love both of you. In different ways, yes, but I care about you both, all the same. Since you’re both staying here, you two are going to have to tolerate one another until one of you leaves. I won’t tolerate any disrespect of any kind. Is that clear?”

“Not our dad,” Annie repeats under her breath.

“My roof, my rules,” he replies. “Annie, you hold your tongue, and Mikasa, don’t let her get to you. Now, we’re going to have the chicken I just got from Walmart, we’re going to watch the Discovery Channel, and then we’re all going to sleep and leaving for work and school tomorrow morning. And in between, no one is fighting anyone. Am I understood?”

“Sure,” Annie and I mumble. Armin accepts it.

“Come into the kitchen and grab a plate. I’ll get the TV started.”

* * *

Dinner passes sort of quickly. We watch a special about meerkats, and it’s at least vaguely interesting. Armin and Annie sit curled in toward one another, holding hands, Armin’s cheek resting atop her head. I sit in mild disgust in the other corner of the couch.

The chicken is alright. I eat it with some leftover bagged salad and water, and when I’m done, I clear my plate and start the dishes. I hear Armin and Annie talking in hushed tones as I do, and I wonder- I worry- that they might be talking about me.

Annie’s biggest problem with me, I’ve always assumed, is that I pose a threat to her and Armin’s relationship. Absently, I wonder if she’s ever called me a whore. I wonder if she thinks Armin and I have ever- well. Done it, I guess.

I bet she does. I wonder how anyone can be so blind and insecure. After all, even if you were to look past the fact that we see one another as siblings, how on earth would I ever steal anyone away from anyone else? I’m far too socially awkward and plain. Not to mention that I’m not all that interested in sex. As a matter of fact, the thought of the act makes me feel a little nauseous. It reminds me of what those men would talk about, when I was younger. All the graphic imagery comes back to me. I hate it.

So, yeah, Annie, as always, is stupid. But I don’t dwell on this fact, because I remember that Armin cares about her. I ignore the boiling feeling in my stomach, once more. For his sake.

* * *

Annie sleeps on my couch. I sleep on the floor.

Armin kisses her good-night, making us both promise to behave before retreating back to his room. We promise. He leaves. Annie hits the lights.

Moments pass in silence, to my relief and dismay. It’s so quiet, I can hear my heart beating in my ears, the sound not unlike footsteps down a carpeted corridor.

Footsteps.

_What’s in here?_

_Junk. Old newspapers and shit. You know._

_Why’s it locked?_

_Because it’s my shit. Now get the fuck out._

Annie breathes silently. Her breaths are light, higher pitched than her voice.

Quiet breaths.

Doorknob rattling.

_Damn. He’s got a good lock on this._

_Isn’t there a window to that room?_

_Wait- yeah, I think you’re right._

_Let’s get in through there tomorrow night. When he’s out._

_Sounds good._

Someone save me, someone save me, someone save me,

Hand on my temple.

_You said something!_

I didn’t. I was so quiet.

_If they take you away, I’m not coming to get you, brat._

Levi, please, I didn’t say a word.

_Good luck handling them._

Please!

_Mikasa._

“Mikasa.”

I choke on my breath as it hitches in my throat. My eyes have welled up. My lips ache.

“Yes?”

Annie is staring at me. “Who are you talking to?” she asks me.

“I don’t know,” I whisper.

“Are you….okay?”

I laugh, the sound short and a little scary. “No,” I answer. “Haven’t been in a while.”

We are both quiet. I am embarrassed beyond belief, and I have no idea what I’m supposed to do now.

“Sorry,” I say. “Sorry. I can head off and go back to my dorm-”

“Not a good idea,” she interrupts. “Should I get Armin?”

“No. He’s asleep.”

“Yeah, but you-”

“He’s gone through so much already. Just for my sake. Please don’t wake him up.”

I turn away, fixing my eyes on the coffee table in front of me. A hand touches my shoulder.

A hand, grabbing my shoulder.

_Get back in there. Now._

Please, don’t send me back.

“Back where? Your dorm? You’re not making any sen-”

_I have nowhere else to hide you.  You stay in here. If they can’t get in, good for you. If they do, it’s your own goddamn fault. I’m tired of protecting you all the time._

Levi, please-

“Who the hell is Levi?”

I blink. I am, once again, staring into the eyes of Annie Leonhardt. My best friend’s girlfriend.

“What?” I ask.

“Who the hell is Levi?”

I stare at her, dumbfounded. Her hand is surprisingly warm on my shoulder.

“My….cousin,” I say slowly. “He’s- he’s missing, right now.”

Annie’s face shifts, somehow. She looks almost as vulnerable as she did when Armin spoke to her earlier. Her lips are pursed in concern, eyes so empathetic they might as well be my own. I’ve never seen her look quite like this before, and for some reason, it hurts to see.

Before the aching it causes can start to burn, she turns to lie on her back, arm dangling down from the couch so that it still touches my shoulder. Strands of blonde fall alongside it, pinned under her shoulder. Her fingers twitch, ever so slightly.

“Can we talk, Mikasa?” she asks.

“I don’t talk,” I answer.

“Then can I tell you something?”

“Feel free.”

She sighs. “I think we’re a lot more alike than I thought.”

“You think so?”

“Yes.” Another sigh, this one lighter. She taps her middle finger on the side of my shoulder. “Did Armin ever tell you how we met?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Well, he should’ve. My dad…..well, he was a shitty parent. A shitty human being. He fucked me up. Beat me. Made me think I was stupid. Made me hate myself.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, because I am.

She simply exhales. I can tell she’s tired of it, the pity and the sympathetic condolences. I’m pretty tired of them, myself.

“It’s fine,” she answers, the line rehearsed and worn. “Anyway, I met Armin at a bookstore, when I was having a breakdown in the back corner. He helped me out and talked me through it, like the ball of sunshine he is. We got to talking, once I calmed down. He bought me some tea and food. I helped him run some errands. I started to like him. He asked me out. I said no.”

“Why?” I ask, though I’m sure I already know the reason.

“Come on, Mikasa, me? On a date? Can you imagine the shit I’d say? How many ways I could fuck up? And even if, by some miracle, I didn’t ruin everything, and we somehow got into a relationship, how the hell would I manage that?

“But Armin didn’t mind. He didn’t mind any of it. We just talked, from then on. Every night. We hung out and talked. I could tell he liked me. I couldn’t understand why, but I could tell.”

_Don’t I know the feeling,_ I think.

“And, eventually, he asked me out again. Because I was selfish and tired of pushing him away, I said yes. And that’s how we ended up here, in what I can barely call a relationship.

“I know you think I’m not right for him, or whatever. I know you might even like him-”

“I really don’t,” I tell her. “Not in that way.”

“Whatever,” she dismisses. “But I want you to know that, while I can be a shitty human being and I don’t deserve him, he’s all I have, Mikasa. He’s the only person in the world who cares about me. I don’t care if I’m being selfish. I’m not giving that up.”

“I understand,” I tell her. “Just….I don’t know. Just be careful with him.”

“I’m trying my best.”

“Try harder.”

More silence passes. I focus on tiny details of the room, hoping not to be thrown back into memory again. I focus on Annie’s hand. I notice scars, shiny circles scattered across her wrist. Lighter ones, more uniform. They’re hard to spot, usually, since she’s so fair-skinned.

“What happened to your hand?” I wonder out loud. Annie snatches it away from me, never turning her head.

“What happened to your face?” She asks in return. I feel myself flush; I thought she didn’t notice.

“Date gone wrong,” I say, because I think it sounds funny that way. Just a date gone wrong. Bad date. Bad time. Simple, easy, no real lasting consequences. Haha.

“Let me guess,” she says. “Eren Jaeger.”

I start at the sound of his name, my stomach shaking. “Yes,” I say. “How did you know?”

“He was asking about you at Sasha’s party, after you’d left. I used to hang with him, when we were younger. Before he moved. Anyway, we drank together while he gushed on and on about you. I don’t remember much of what he said, but it sounds like he was pretty taken. What’d you do, suck him off?”

I exhale in irritation. “Funny,” I mutter.

“Sorry,” she says. Her voice is much softer, now. “I’m an idiot.”

More silence. Then she asks, “What _did_ you do?”

“Well, I didn’t have sex with him, if that’s what you’re asking,” I snap.

“No, no, I- look, I’m sorry. I’m a bitch. I just wanted to know- like- why. Why he looked so happy.”

“Happy?” I repeat.

“Yes,” she says. “I’ve only ever seen him…..angry. In a fight. Crying, even, but not happy. I’ve never seen him smile like he did when he talked about you. Honestly, I’m impressed.”

“What’s so impressive?” I ask blankly. My fingers tighten around my blanket. “We just talked a little. It was nothing special.”

I’m a liar, and I know it.

“It probably was. Do you know what a big deal it is that Eren-fucking-Jaeger was smiling?”

“I really don’t.”

“He hasn’t been that happy since, like, fourth grade, probably. Especially since his mom died.”

I freeze.

_Especially since his mom died._

_His mom died._

_His mom died._

“ _Mikasa, we’ll be back by eleven. Be good, okay?”_

_Clock is ticking,_

_Tick Tock,_

_Tick Tock._

_It’s past midnight._

“ _Miss Rico, where are they?”_

_Tick Tock,_

_Tick Tock._

“ _You should head on to bed, Mikasa.”_

_I can’t sleep._

_Police cars at 1 A.M._

_Lights are flashing._

_Emergency Room._

_They are not awake._

_They are not awake._

_They are not awake._

“ _Mom? Dad?”_

_Her fingers are cold._

_His are rough._

“ _Your mother didn’t make it.”_

  
  


_You curl up into a ball and you begin to cry,_

_And though I keep a list’ning ear, you never tell me why._

  
  


“ _We’re cutting him off. He’s gone, anyway.”_

“ _Your father didn’t make it, either. I’m sorry, sweetheart.”_

  
  


_If you’re upset because you see me walking out the door,_

_Just know I’ll always be with you; you won’t be lonely anymore._

  
  


_Ooh, ooh, ooh, and we sing a song_

_Ooh, ooh, ooh, when everything seems wrong._

  
  


_His mom died._

“His mom died?”

“Yeah,” says Annie. The song continues to play in the back of my head, but I don’t think she can tell.

“...how?”

“Not my place to tell,” she says curtly. “But long story short, Eren blames himself.”

“He-”

_Why did I let them leave that night?_

“-blames himself? That’s-”

_This must be what I deserve. For letting them go._

“-ridiculous.”

Annie casts me a piercing side glance. “You don’t know the whole story,” she murmurs.

_Or should I call you murderer?_

Jean’s words ring in my ears for a brief moment, and something tugs at my stomach.

“Then tell me,” I say, suddenly realizing exactly how quiet my voice is, how small it sounds. “Please.”

“It’s not mine to tell,” she repeats. “Ask him yourself.”

For a moment, I consider this. I try to imagine how my asking him would go down.

As it tends to, my imagination falls flat on its face, leaving me with more questions than anything. I have no idea how he might react. Would he tell me? If he didn’t, would he be angry at me for asking? Would he be angry at Annie for telling me? Would he simply walk away, or pretend as though I’d never asked?

I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know. And that scares me, not knowing. It always has.

So I decide to ignore Annie’s advice. I will not ask Eren myself.

Still, I say, “Okay,” because I’m suddenly tired, and I want to go to sleep immediately. No more memories, no more Eren, no more talking. Just sleep.

Before I drift off, I feel Annie’s hand slip into mine, and I find myself surprisingly glad for it.

* * *

**AN: Aaaand, we're back! Hi.**

**I have decided that this will be a relatively short story. Still** _**very** _ **eremika, mind you, but. Not a conventional love story. I'll say this: if you're here for a fic that's peaches an cream, I'd leave. Things get. Complicated. Things** _**are** _ **complicated. I've been in love before- I likely still am- and it is an insane, confusing, unbelievably strong emotion. It's likely that Eren and Mikasa won't so much fall in love as connect with one another, but the concept is similar enough. Love is strange, and it doesn't tend to pair well with trauma. The question is: which is more potent, and what do you do with the both of them?**

**I hope this story answers that question for you all. Thanks for all your support! Please review and share, if you can take the time to. Be back soon. ;)**

 


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